


Communion

by Silverwing26



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ciel POV, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Poor Ciel, This Is Not Your Grandfather's Catholicism, Weston, children are such sheep, father michaelis, why is it so hot in the chapel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwing26/pseuds/Silverwing26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ciel is cranky, hungry and far too hot as he kneels for morning mass. At least communion, when Father Michaelis is involved, tends to be interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Communion

It is warm in here, stifling. These uniforms are so much stuffier, more boring, and warmer than the clothes my butler chooses for me. I never much cared for what he dressed me in, but now I can see how much care he takes in choosing fabrics, and designs so that I might remain comfortable, not that I would ever tell him such. Though, maybe it is merely coincidence, and he simply dresses me to his own tastes. I don't much care. I simply hate how hot these uniforms feel especially when I am kneeling, meshed in between these other simpering boys - heads bent in prayer.

Hmph, prayer. Yes they are supposed to be engaged in prayer, offering their devotion and penitence to _Him_. However, I know better. I can see the sweat on their brows, and how they glance toward the alter here _HE_ is standing, offering his sermon to the masses.

Oh it's laughable. He stands there, with the massive book open before him, and he preaches to the boys of Weston. Such faithful little lambs; oh and how intrigued the other children are. I can't blame them entirely. Not really. He is something to look at, and his voice does have a certain attractive quality... Oh what am I thinking? This is ridiculous. It must be the heat. It's affecting my brain.

But then... I chance a look towards the altar and despite a sea of willing, innocent, virginal faces, the vicar's eyes only seem to fall in two places. He either glances down at the scripture, which I know he does not need to read, or those unusual garnet eyes meet mine across pews of young boys.

My knees hurt, kneeling in this position for so long. This is ridiculous. I turned from the faith long ago, my salvation has nothing to do with any prayers I might offer. I do not pray to _Him_. My only prayers come in darkness with the devil hearing my sins, coaxing them from me like arias – echoing against my bedchamber walls and my how he does make a captive audience.

I glance up, and he is smirking. _The bastard._ Sometimes I wonder if he does read my mind. He swears he does not, but still I wonder. My knees ache, and he is trying not to laugh. I can almost hear him... Ah Phantomhive, you have spent much longer than this on your knees before. Surely it isn't so uncomfortable, is it?

Oh you bastard. Perhaps I might have, but then surely what I was doing was much more entertaining than pretending to offer false prayers to a useless deity. The absurdity is making me light headed. I want to pull my tie free and shed this jacket before I pass out from heat exhaustion.

I look up again, and his brow is arched as his eyes dart to mine with his lips curling at the corners. I chance a look across the ocean of innocent faces and I see Harcourt wringing his fingers together and trying desperately to look anywhere but at the Professor, and that is the one place his eyes keep being drawn too.

Useless fool. You are a plaything for the devil you inconsequential sparrow, and he will take no more notice of you than a bug under his heel. The thought makes me feel slightly better. And I blow a breath upwards to stir my damp bangs.

I inhale sharply, because I can suddenly feel a cool breath across the nape of my neck, and the scent of cinnamon and clove overwhelm me. I know it can't be him, because he is still at the pulpit talking about ... oh I don't even care what he is talking about. I can't help it. My head falls forward and a shiver runs down my spine.

Oh this is torture. My shoulders are forced back by this ungodly tight suit coat. My knees are aching from kneeling in prayer, Sweat is sliding down my back and all I can think about is the cool sinful breath on my nape, and the reflection of a rosary dangling above me.

Ah, it is drawing to a close - finally. How long can this damnable fool prevaricate. I shouldn't ask such a thing. That seems to be his speciality. I am starving and when this charade is over, I will finally be able to have a proper breakfast. Crossing myself brings a warmth to my face. I am suddenly reminded of long black tipped fingers crossing my body, with pearlescent fluid dripping from his fingers, the MOST holy of anointments, or so one would believe by watching this beautiful vicar savour such a thing.

I stand and try to look as though I am as bored with the mass as I should be, and truthfully, I haven't heard a word of it. The heat has had me distracted. Why is it so hot in the chapel? I must ask him about it. He would do something like that just to annoy me. Well, I will get him back for that. I shall think of some particularly difficult flavour of frozen cream that I will demand he provide me... yes, I think so. I am distracted, and tired and if I am to be honest, rather grumpy at this moment, and I barely realize that my row has begun to file into the aisle. Oh... oh dear. Communion. This is such an odd ritual. I've never understood it. To take the body and blood of Christ into one's self... to what? Honour him? I don't understand. Communion with Father Michaelis though, is always interesting.

I have never seen so many sheep inside a building in my life. There is nothing else to call these foolish children. They drop to their knees, and look up into his _kind, serene, angelic, beautiful face..._ All of these things and more I have heard from the youth at Weston then they describe the Latin Professor. I sigh and shake my head. Harcourt can barely keep his hands from shaking, and McMillon looks as though he has just seen Father Christmas for the first time.

Finally. Once this is over with I can have breakfast.

He is so smug. The absolute bastard. I bet he just adores it, the simpering fools falling at his feet. I can sense how badly they want him, to him it must be a chorus of desire. What irony, the devil herding the youth of Weston. This is pointless. Well, I am no fool, and this wonderful, beautiful, kind professor.... **BELONGS. TO. ME.**

I sink to my knees, and look up into the vicar's face. His lips are curled at the corners, the smile he offers me so much more honest than those who have come before me, than the one for those who are in line behind me, and in that is my advantage. I stare up at him through dark lashes and I watch the Latin Professor falling into them. I run my tongue over my lips as I part them to receive what he offers me. He places the host upon my tongue and I chance a wicked grin as I close my lips around his finger. I see his pupils narrow just slightly and I know I am having the effect on him that he has forced on me all morning. He deserves it, the insufferable knave.

He lifts the chalice to my lips and his eyes narrow. He isn't terribly hard to read, not if you know him like I do. That expression says the words his mouth cannot. Oh no, he cannot spout the vulgarities that he so enjoys trying to shake me with, for it would blow his perfect cover. His aesthetic won't allow for it, and I would scorn him for running my investigation. Oh no, the devil is at my mercy, as I sit on my knees in the house of God and drink down the wine, the blood, the elixir he feeds me. I want to laugh. The blood of Christ indeed. It is a paltry offering. The blood of the devil is rich and sweet and heady, and awakens in me things I did not know I could feel. THAT is a true offering. Perhaps I have not forgotten how to pray. Perhaps now I just offer my prayers in broken syllables and rows reaved in pale solid flesh. With my hands wrapped around his rosary until my palms bleed, and the vicar teaching me all of my Latin prayers through growls and sweating thrusts, I offer my penitence in cries and my broken voice which he loves so much.

His eyes tell me this isn't over. His curved lips, wetted by his infernal tongue and just barely showing those fangs which have broken my skin so often, all speak to me of how this will not be the last time I am on my knees this day.

Hurry Father. Finish with the pretences so that I might offer my devotion with my hands beneath your robes. Hurry Father, bless me for I have sinned, and I have waited far to long to do it again.


End file.
